Ambition

Yukishiro Tomoe was a woman who was stingy with her affection. Only on rare, desperate occasions would she show her son a sliver of her twisted, awkward tenderness.

Haruka remembered a time he had been sick, a fever burning through him. Even after taking the bitter medicine, his body wouldn’t stop shaking, and the pain was so intense that his sweat soaked the thin, white bedsheets. Yukishiro Tomoe, not knowing what else to do, her usual cold composure shattered by fear, had simply taken his small, hot hand and said, her voice rough, “Mama’s here.”

Haruka’s consciousness was a hazy, painful fog, and he couldn’t remember her exact words, only that she had rambled on, telling him a story to try and distract him from the fire in his bones.

The night passed, and the next day, Haruka was surprised to find he was completely well. Yukishiro Tomoe was as cold and distant as ever, showing no sign of happiness or relief.

Haruka asked her if she had stayed by his side all night, if she had told him a story. She denied it all, her face a stony mask, but he knew she was lying. He knew she truly did care for him, but could only transform her hidden, suffocating love into the hazy, half-forgotten words of a half-remembered story.

He could still recall a few scattered, magical words and had frantically searched their small, cluttered home for any book that might contain the story, as if he were searching for a love that didn’t exist, a proof of affection he could hold in his hands.

He never found the story, but he read more and more books. Eventually, the numb feeling of resignation set in, and his obsession transformed into a thirst for a different kind of knowledge, a knowledge of the world outside their four walls.

When he had finished all the books in their home, he began to frequent a small, nearby bookstore, a dusty haven smelling of old paper and ink. He would always sneak in when the owner wasn’t looking and hide in a corner, reading, the words a silent escape.

After a while, the owner discovered the child who was stealing his books with his eyes.

One day, the owner was in a particularly bad mood. He grabbed Haruka by the collar and dragged him in front of four or five customers. “He comes to my store every day,” he shouted, his voice rough, pointing a thick finger at Haruka, “hides in the corner, and reads without buying a single book!”

Haruka saw the customers staring at him with a mixture of curiosity and pity, and he felt a suffocating sense of frustration that he couldn’t express, a hot shame that burned in his cheeks.

“You’re bad for business,” the owner said, taking out his own frustrations on the silent child. He poked Haruka in the temple with his finger. “Every time I go to clean that corner, it’s either cockroaches or you.”

Just then, a woman’s voice, gentle but firm, stopped the owner’s rough treatment. “It’s a good thing for a child to love books. Don’t be so hard on him.”

Haruka recognized the woman as the owner’s wife. She had a kind, tired smile. “How old are you?” she asked.

“Ten.”

“Can you read all the characters?”

“There are some I don’t understand…”

The woman patted him on the shoulder. “It’s a good thing to love reading. From now on, you can sit here and read. No one will bother you. And if there’s anything you don’t understand, you can ask me.”

“Hey, you didn’t even ask for my opinion…” the owner grumbled, his face sullen.

“It’s not as if you have many customers anyway,” his wife said, her voice sharp. “One more or one less makes no difference. This child loves books so much. Maybe he’ll grow up to be someone important.”

The owner glanced at Haruka’s faded, washed-out clothes. “What kind of important person could he possibly become?”

The woman shot her husband a sharp, warning glare, then said gently to Haruka, “Don’t mind him. You can come here whenever you like.”

The owner continued to grumble under his breath.

“Thank you,” Haruka whispered, and then he smiled. It was not a smile of anger, nor was it a brave front. It was a genuine, heartfelt smile that radiated a natural, disarming warmth, instantly making one feel at ease.

The owner looked at his clear, bright eyes and couldn’t help but think, Maybe I was too quick to judge.

By the time everyone came back to their senses, Haruka had already left the store, melting back into the streets.

For several days, he did not return. The woman thought she would never see him again, that her husband’s cruelty had driven him away for good. But one evening, during a heavy, blinding snowstorm, Haruka entered the bookstore, his lips white with cold, his thin clothes covered in unmelted snowflakes that glittered in the warm light.

The woman and her husband said nothing. Haruka greeted them softly and slowly sat down in his corner, his chapped, red hands trembling as he took a book from the shelf.

The woman poured a cup of steaming hot tea, but her husband stopped her. “Letting him read is enough. Why are you giving him tea?”

“You have no empathy?” she said, her voice sharp with a sudden, fierce anger. “He’s just a child, and he’s frozen. Can’t you spare a single cup of tea to warm him up?”

The owner let go of her arm, still grumbling, “This is a bookstore, not a charity.” He looked over at Haruka, who was curled up in the corner, already absorbed in his book. “You said he would grow up to be someone important,” he sneered. “I doubt it. A person with real pride wouldn’t have come back after what I said to him.”

“Is pride the same as ‘face’?” his wife retorted, her voice low and intense. “It’s clear this child is someone who can endure humiliation and setbacks. He will surely achieve something in the future.”

“I doubt it,” the owner said, turning a page of his newspaper with a loud rustle.

The woman quietly walked over to Haruka. Seeing him so lost in his book, she didn’t disturb him, but simply placed the hot tea beside him, a silent offering.

Haruka read until the tea had gone cold. Only then did he notice it. He went to the woman to thank her. She just smiled. The owner simply turned his back, ignoring him completely.

“You should sit over here with us from now on,” the woman said.

The owner slapped the newspaper down on the table, his eyes wide with disapproval.

“I am content to sit in the corner,” Haruka said.

“Not many children love to read these days,” the woman said with a smile. “And it’s not as if we have many customers. You won’t be in the way.” She glanced at the thick history book in his hands. “And I imagine there are many things you don’t understand, many characters you don’t recognize. Why don’t you sit here, and I can teach you?”

Haruka hesitated for a moment, then thanked her again and sat down at the small table with her.

The woman taught him many things. During their quiet chats, he learned she was a laid-off teacher. When she asked about his parents, he was evasive, his answers vague and practiced.

“Heh, so he’s an abandoned kid,” the owner said at an inopportune moment, his voice full of scorn.

“Then all the other children in the world are not as good as this ‘abandoned kid’,” the woman shot back, glaring at her husband. She said gently to Haruka, “Don’t mind him. He has a foul mouth, but not a bad heart.”

She took her husband’s thick scarf and coat from the rack and draped them over Haruka’s thin shoulders. She also gave him an umbrella and the book he hadn’t finished. “It’s getting late. You should go home. You can bring these back tomorrow.”

Haruka’s heart was a delicate, sensitive instrument. He understood that she was doing this not only because she was afraid he would be cold, but also because she was afraid he wouldn’t come back tomorrow. He was deeply, profoundly grateful.

Outside, the snow was falling heavily, a swirling white curtain. Haruka stood in front of the stove by the door, the roaring flames reflecting on his pale, young face.

“I will repay you one day,” he said with a serious, solemn expression.

The woman couldn’t help but let out a soft laugh. She was about to say, “What could you possibly repay me with, little one?” but Haruka had already disappeared into the snowstorm.

The howling wind pushed against his umbrella, forcing him back. The cold, sharp snowflakes stung his neck through the thick wool of the scarf. But it wasn’t the cold that he felt, but a burning indignation in his heart, a fire that warmed him from the inside out.

He clutched the history book to his chest. It was full of stories of heroes who had achieved great things at a young age, as if they were reincarnated gods, born with all the knowledge and power they needed.

At the time, Haruka had found it all absurd, believing the stories were just beautiful fabrications of the historians. But now, in the vast, endless snowstorm, a spirit of pure, defiant ambition was born within him.

“Why can’t that be me?”

Haruka slowly came back to the present. He looked at Murakami Suzune, who was kneeling on the floor before him, her head bowed in absolute submission, and felt as if he had just taken the first, difficult, painful step out into the snow.